


Lilo

by mintboy (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Fluff, Humanstuck, M/M, One Shot, POV First Person, Photography, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 17:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16391792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/mintboy
Summary: Dave, the dedicated owner of a flower shop and photography hobbyist, spends each and every day developing photos and independently running his store. That is, until the charming tattoo artist from the building next door wanders in, and suddenly every flower Dave arranges carries a little more meaning.For my boyfriend - happy anniversary!





	Lilo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KittyMotor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyMotor/gifts).



I have so many hobbies that I was once told it was a miracle that I’d had the commitment to turn only one into a business. Commitment was never the problem, though; it was money. If commitment alone was what launched a business, I’d have so many I’d hardly know what to do with them all. But, as it was, I couldn’t fund every single one of my hobbies with enough vigor to make it my life – so, I picked one.

When people see me, I don’t think ‘florist’ is what comes to mind, and I’m fine with that. When you say ‘florist’, there are only a few images the word conjures, and my hoodie-shades-and-converse combination isn’t exactly the refined sort of type you’d imagine making flower arrangements in his free time. It was probably a masculinity thing. My sister would know about it.

Petal to the Metal is lodged comfortably between an old, family-owned deli and a tattoo parlor, INKOGNITIO ARTS. It’s small – it has a tiny showroom that’s smaller than the average convenience store, and it’s so packed to the brim on both sides with flowers that the walkway down the center to the register can only fit two people comfortably, three if they were touching chest-to-chest. Behind the counter is a door to the back room; a merged bedroom and office. It’s small, smaller than the showroom, and the edge of my bed is so close to my desk chair that I have to pull the chair out of the way onto the other side of the bed to get to my bathroom-slash-darkroom, an area filthy with developer and discarded photo paper.

Photography is another hobby to which I am thoroughly committed.

I let my head fall against the wall, tired of straining my eyes trying to stare at my watch in the red safelight I’d installed in the bathroom. It was made of a piece of red, semi-transparent plastic put over the bright LED ceiling light.

After rubbing my eyes for a moment, I glance at my watch again. It’s about time – I always leave behind a couple seconds, the amount it would take for me to stand and walk over to the sink.

I push myself off of the tile floor, sauntering to the sink. My arms and legs ache from the awkward position I’d been in while I waited. Four photos float in the developer. Feeling my face contort at the smell, I pull them up, examining them one-by-one.

The first image is of a crow. I remember taking it – it was just outside the shop. The photo is blurry, but only on the crow’s face and beak, as it had been turning its head at the time I took the photo. Feeling a little pride in my chest at how it turned out, I drop it into the stopper, which is in a dirty utility bucket sitting on the lid of my toilet.

The other three are duds. I had been trying to play with longer exposure times at night, but the Houston streetlights and red, starless sky made them less than desirable. In fact, two of them were almost bright white from over-exposure. The third was an ugly, pale red, with the bottom of the black streetlight post melting away into the sky. I throw all three onto the ground – I’ll gather them for the garbage later. They land on top of four or five other failed photos.

Once the crow photo is done in the stopper and properly fixed – my fixer sitting in another utility bucket, this one inside my bathtub – I pull the red filter off of my light. The bright, white light burns my eyes, and I squint, shutting it off and slipping back into my bedroom. I clip up the crow photo on a twine line hanging in my window to let it dry.

I glance at my watch again. It’s 6:59AM, and I usually open the shop at seven, despite the fact no one ever comes in until at least ten. I let my eyes move to the mirror I have propped up against the wall – I still haven’t changed out of what I wore to bed last night, and it looks like it. I’m clad in nothing but a wrinkly Police t-shirt and boxers, and my hair is twisted at so many angles that I doubt it’ll look presentable even after I brush it. My shades are on the counter in the showroom, so my eyes are clear as day, framed by dark bags from staying up developing photos the night before. Freckles, blemishes, and scars smatter my cheeks.

Yeah, I’m going to have to open a little late today.

I take my time getting ready, which is still fast, I think. I don’t really like showers, so I’m done with the actually in about five minutes – it’s the fact that I accidentally dump the fixer all over my feet that makes it take about twenty minutes longer – cleaning it out of the tub is an annoying and tedious job. It smells like garbage.

After I finally drag myself out of the shower, eyes stinging from the scent of fixer, I throw on the first set of clean clothes I can find. It’s just a pair of jeans and a t-shirt – an old one I’d picked up at a thrift store for laughs. It’s red and says “my wife doesn’t know I’m retired” in the center. The letters are chipping off, though, so it looks more like “y wife doe kn I’m tired”. I don’t bother with shoes. It’s my store. I can be barefoot.

I run a hand through my still-wet hair, which is slightly slick with leftover conditioner that I’d been too lazy to wash out completely. I duck into the showroom, grabbing my shades off of the counter and slipping them on as I make my way to the door. It’s just a bit after half-past seven, which isn’t terribly late past my marked opening time. I flip the sign to “OPEN”, unlocking the door and pushing it open. It’s hot outside – almost unbearably so – and stepping out to prop the door open is like walking directly into a wall of thick, sticky heat. I kick the doorstop under the door, turning on my heel and wandering back to the counter. I make myself comfortable – I get customers, but most are regulars who come in the early afternoon.

At about nine, I go get one of my cameras, fucking around with the settings while I sit. I eventually set it down on the counter in favor of tapping out a beat with discarded stems. There’s only so much I can do while I wait; and I’m not really in the mood to make more bouquets. It’s a blast, don’t get me wrong, but the inspiration has to really strike me. That’s art for you. Besides, I wouldn’t really know where to put it. Every shelf is so full they seem to be bursting with flowers – I’m the type to make somewhere around fifty or sixty in a day, and then stop for a solid few to take a break – then fill the shelves again all in one go.

Just a couple minutes after the clock strikes ten, someone walks in for the first time. I hadn’t been wrong in that most people came in after ten – my shop isn’t a bakery; who buys flowers at seven in the morning? The occasional panicking husband, but no one else. And I don’t really have patience for that type. Seven was more of a _suggested_ opening time I’d set for myself.

The man who had walked in just a few minutes ago has a bit of an uncomfortable air to him, I quickly notice. He’s attractive, though – he’s got the sort of face that would make anyone melt, and his hair is charming, curly mess on the top of his head. He’s clearly strong, but in the lean sort of way; he’s wearing a tank top, and the muscles in his arms are clearly visible under a thorough coating of black-work tattoos. He’s got sharp, pointed gauges visible just under where his curls cover his ears, and when his lips twitch nervously his snake-bites move with them. He turns to glance at me, and our eyes don’t meet; I don’t think he can find mine behind my shades. His eyes are pretty, though, and I look away, feeling a little too absorbed by their warm color.

I feel like I may have seen him somewhere in the past, but I’m not sure. He’s definitely never been in the store before, but there’s a possibility he lives down my street.

I go back to tapping a beat on the counter. It’s not long, though, before I hear the tell-tale click of a shutter closing – and I realize just why the guy seems so uncomfortable. He’s got a little point-and-shoot camera hidden behind one of his hands. He’s taking pictures of my flowers.

“You’re not being very discreet, my guy,” I say.

He jumps and looks up – I feel a little bad for scaring him. He shoves the camera in his pocket.

“Sorry,” he grumbles. It looks like he’s starting to turn around, but I pull the conversation back; I’m not terribly bothered by what he was doing – it was more intriguing than anything. He could’ve just asked my permission, and I would’ve said yes. Unless he’s doing it for some creepy porn or something.

“No worries,” I shrug, and he stops, looking at me, “I feel like I’ve seen you around, though. You live on this street?”

“I don’t,” he answers, “I own the tattoo parlor next door.”

He doesn’t have a drawl, I realize. His voice is rough and smooth at the same time – like every word is punctuated by a deep meaning, yet it flows from him with the grace landing swans. His words aren’t drawn out with the Houston-accent I’ve claimed my entire life; I can’t pinpoint where he’s from, but I’ve already decided his voice is really, really nice.

“Cool,” I say, realizing I had fallen silent. He rubs the back of his neck.

“I … was taking pictures for references, to draw,” he explains, suddenly, “I wasn’t trying to be an asshole or anything like that.”

“You’re not going to get a strong photo on a camera like that,” I say with a laugh, standing and walking over.

“What the fuck do you mean?”

“Well, a point-and-shoot doesn’t exactly scream high-quality photos,” I shrug, looking at the bouquet he was trying to photograph, “and taking them so fast, like you were – trying to do it while I wasn’t looking, or whatever. You’d lose all the details on the lilies.”

He looks up at me, scowling.

“Are you trying to get me to buy flowers?”

“Nah. I’m just saying. If you’re gonna draw my flowers, I’d want you to get all the details. Why don’t you take it?” I wrap my fingers around the base of the bouquet, pulling it out. I catch the excess water as it falls from the stems in my hand, reaching over to wrap the base of it in plastic. I offer it to him.

“… You’re just _giving_ it to me?”

“Why not?” I respond, pulling my phone out of my pocket, “I’ve got a request, though.”

He raises his eyebrow at me.

“C’mon, it’s nothing big. I just want you to send me a picture of what you do with them. How’s that sound?”

“… Yeah, okay,” he agrees begrudgingly, taking the bouquet from me.

After we exchange numbers, he makes his way out, leaving me again to wait for someone else to wander into my store. By the way he turns after the heat hits him, I can tell he’s heading next door to the tattoo shop – which I had learned doesn’t open until one in the afternoon from his website; not that I had googled it immediately after he’d gone. Anyway, one is a late time to open a business, that’s what I’m getting at. And _my_ hours are wacky, just because I open late sometimes. People have weird standards.

After he’s gone, I find myself staring at the contact in my phone: Karkat Vantas. The artist. I keep scrolling through the website for his parlor, which is somewhat clunky and hard to navigate – that isn’t uncommon for small businesses, though. Mine was a disaster; only because I want it to be. Eye-straining colors and comic-sans is a wonderfully ironic juxtaposition to the beauty of the sample bouquets on my website. It’s great.

There’s a warm, fluttery feeling in my chest that won’t go away, as I scroll through the empty “sample work” page, which claims to be in progress. It’s a little sad that none of his work is there, but it makes me more excited to hopefully see it later. Most of the website seems to be under construction, but it doesn’t matter. It makes me think of him. As the warm feeling gets stronger, I realize I don’t really want it to away, despite being unsure of what to do with it.

It’s probably for that reason that I don’t text him – out of some kind of anxiety I’ve never had before. I don’t want to fuck up, make him less inclined to keep up his end of our unofficial agreement; I don’t want the feeling to go away. It doesn’t matter, though, because he hadn’t asked me to text him. I have to keep reminding myself he didn’t really seem all that interested in me – shoving down the hope that whatever photo he sends sparks a conversation that leads to more.

Five days after Karkat came into my shop, when I’m in the bathroom-slash-darkroom, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I didn’t realize I had left it there when I went inside and sealed up the door, so I quickly press my hands over the pocket, shutting off the screen. I sigh with relief – if any light had gotten out into the room, that would’ve been disastrous. Luckily, most of the photos I had taken are already ruined and trampled underneath my bare feet, so there are only two left – and they are just about ready to be moved into the fixer, I realize. Reaching into the stopper, I pull them out and carefully shake them; both of the photos depict bouquets I had made the day before. I had been playing with a piece of glass, trying to get the light to reflect off of the petals. I drop them into the fixer – a new bucket of the stuff, since I’d so carelessly wrecked the last one during my shower earlier in the week.

After counting down the minutes until the photos are done – so I can check my phone – I hastily clean up the room and hang them in my windowsill. My hands are dripping with the developing chemicals, but I don’t bother to wash them, just wiping them onto my already stained pants. I pull out my phone. Sure enough, it’s a text from Karkat – or, rather, two. The first is a little paragraph apologizing for the time and explaining that he wanted to wait until he had actually tattooed the piece onto someone to show me.

The second is the photo of the tattoo.

It’s on someone’s forearm, and it’s of one of my lilies. It’s not in color, but somehow still captures the life of the flower in stippled shadows and clean, black lines. It surely didn’t need to be in color, now that I think about it – Karkat’s talent was obvious. I can imagine the flower tucked into one of my bouquets.

I spend the next ten, rambling messages praising his work, and he’s somewhere between pissed at me and flustered by the compliments. It’s endearing. I plead for more photos – of anything he’s done. He obliges, flooding my inbox with pictures of his tattoos. I can tell some of the older ones were taken on that little point-and-shoot camera of his, which makes me laugh. I don’t see why he wouldn’t take them on his phone. It doesn’t matter to me, though.

There’s a wide variety of tattoos, but most are of plants and animals. He excels at the sort of anatomical correctness one would see on the pages of encyclopedias in a time before cameras. Each of them is beautiful in its own way, and when he sheepishly sends me some of his early work, all I can see is how much he has grown from the first tattoos he gave as an apprentice.

I invite him back to Petal to the Metal – I tell him he’s welcome to any flower he pleases, anytime, and he suggests that I “just give the fucking strays, Dave, god, I’m not going to waste your expensive-ass bouquets,” and insists that it makes him happy to take the singles, as he can press them when he’s finished. I agree more quickly than I think I’ve ever agreed to anything before, and I find myself setting aside the most beautiful of my flowers for him to whisk away and turn into artwork. We do this for weeks – I set aside flowers as I make my bouquets, waiting for the three times a week he waltzes into the store, and when he arrives I hand them to him in bunches, wishing him well and requesting he send pictures of whatever he comes up with.

We talk a lot more, too, sometimes when he comes to visit, most times over text – about his taste in movies, about his family’s ill feelings towards his profession, about the shitty brother and apartment I left behind at eighteen. We bond over our pasts and our hopes for the future, and the dreams we’ve created for ourselves. We never really talk about love, and I wish we did, but at the same time I don’t care – as long as I’m spending time with him.

We’ve been close for about two months when I first take my turn wandering into his store. The day before I had given him some flowers, and I wasn’t to expect him to be back for a few more days, just as usual.

The tattoo parlor is bigger than my store, and clearly has a large back room where the tattoos and piercings are done. There’s a desk at the front, and next to it two large, black couches that sit beside a glass case full of shimmering jewelry. Karkat is behind the desk, head down – he was clearly sketching something.

“Hey, Kit-kat,” I greet, making my way over. He looks up, surprise painting his face.

“Dave, what the fresh hell are you doing here?” he asks, but smiles, standing up. His smile is radiant. I shove my hands in my pockets.

“Well, you see, I was wondering if you had a second to give a guy one of your floral masterpieces.”

The way Karkat’s eyes widen in that moment feels like an image I’ll keep for an eternity.

“You’re fucking with me,” he says.

“Nah, I even, like, brought cash,” I reply with a grin, “I can actually make an appointment if you’d like, but consider me your blank canvas, Karkles, just slather me up in oil paint and hope it dries in the next thirty years, make me a real water-lily like Monet would’ve wa –”

“Shut up,” Karkat snaps, before adding, “… but, I’m not doing anything right now, if you’re really sure you _actually_ want a tattoo. Some asshole cancelled on me, so I’ve got time.”

 “Yeah, I _actually_ want one,” I scoff. He rolls his eyes, motioning me to follow him into the room in the back.

One of those reclining hydraulic bed-chair contraptions is in the center of the room, and next to it sits a rolling table holding the machines and ink. Tacked on the walls are what seem like hundreds of little drawings of animals and flowers. He invites me to sit down on the chair.

“So … you want a flower? Anything specific in mind? You can’t just say ‘I want a flower’, asshole. You’re a fucking florist.”

“Touché,” I say, though it’s only half-audible when accompanied by a breathy laugh. Karkat crosses his arms, and it hits me that I didn’t actually come with much of a plan. It wasn’t a spur of the moment decision at all; I’d been planning this for like a week at least … I just didn’t think past the bit where I’d walk in.

“I don’t know what I want, _exactly,_ I just know I want it from you,” I say, annoyed with how the confidence had just slipped from my voice at that confession. Karkat raises an eyebrow at me, for a moment, before something seems to flash across his eyes. Either he has some sort of idea of what to do, or he’s thinking of the nicest way to tell me to get out of his shop.

“… I have an idea,” he says, finally, and I feel myself releasing a breath that I didn’t realize I had been holding in, “give me a second.”

He walks across the room to a desk by the wall, where messy stacks of un-hung drawings sit on top of stuffed binders – which I can only assume are full of more sketches. He sifts through a couple of the ones on top, before a small smile teases the corner of his lip. He makes his way back over, paper in hand.

“What’ve you got?” I ask, trying to peer over and get a glance. He pulls it away a little, like he’s not ready for me to see. I lean back on one hand.

“I drew this one with you in mind, actually,” he starts, and I can see his cheeks flushing. He flips the page over and hands it to me, looking down.

When my eyes make their way across the page, I’m fairly sure time stops – my heart does, at least. It’s a pencil drawing, but the lines are just as clean as Karkat makes them with his machine. It’s not one flower – it’s a jonquil surrounded by starflowers.

“Did you look these up?” I ask, my voice barely audible over the fan whizzing on the ceiling. Surely, he doesn’t know what these mean – if he did, this wouldn’t just be a silly little drawing with me in mind.

“… Uh, yeah, I didn’t get them wrong, did I?” he asks, “starflowers are courage, and jonquil is – ”

“’Return my affection’,” I finish for him. I look up from the drawing, and Karkat bristles visibly. I rub the back of my neck, “I didn’t know you felt that way,” I say in a breath.

“If you don’t, fuck, I’m sorry,” Karkat reaches for the paper, but I tighten my grip.

“No, I do,” I look at him, smiling. We’re just about the same height when I’m seated on the lowered tattoo-chair, “I really, really do.”

He grins, and god, his smile is so beautiful.

“Can I …” he asks, softly, and I’m not sure when he got closer, but I nod, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. His arms slide around my waist as he leans in and our lips connect. We melt into each other, like we’d been waiting for this moment for eons, like the soft connection of rain on the silky petals of a flower after days of drought.

When we finally break apart, our chests are touching, my legs wrapped tightly around his waist. He presses his forehead against mine, letting out a breathy laugh. I look into his brown eyes and see a warm, sweet eternity. I lean in again. This kiss is shorter, because he pulls away, and I feel myself chasing his touch. He reaches up, threading his fingers in my hair.  

“Still want that tattoo?” he asks against my lips.

“Hell yeah.”


End file.
